


Last Christmas

by InnerLilith



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Has a Crush, Draco Malfoy dressed as David Bowie, Draco works at the Ministry doing vague things with money, Enthusiastic Consent, Getting Together, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Oral Sex, Pining, Press and Tabloids, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Switching, trivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28565046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerLilith/pseuds/InnerLilith
Summary: Harry breaks Draco's heart on Christmas. He spends the entire next year realizing how badly he screwed up and trying to fix it. Shamelessly inspired by the 1985 Wham! hit single "Last Christmas"
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 35
Kudos: 254





	1. The very next day, you gave it away

**Author's Note:**

> I could not get "Last Christmas" out of my head the entire month of December, and now here we are. Chapter titles are lyrics from the song because apparently my mood is cheesy 80s Christmas music and I'm just going with it.
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever actually written (rather than just bopping about in my head and then forgetting), so I would love any feedback!

_December 24, 2002_

Draco Malfoy liked to come to the Leaky Cauldron when he was feeling sappy, or lonely (or sometimes both). The fact that he, only a little more than four years after the War, could walk up to the bar and make polite small talk with old Tom over a tumbler of Ogden’s finest was, he felt, nothing short of a miracle. Of course, he’d done his utmost to be accepted back into the fold, and to deserve it too. But sometimes he needed a reminder that it was real. So when he felt the doubts creep in, he came to the center of wizarding London, to remind himself that he belonged. Usually it was enough. But tonight was Christmas Eve, and Draco was feeling especially lonely. He should have been in Paris with his mum, who’d fucked off there and never looked back after her house arrest lifted three years ago. He usually spent the holidays with her. But this year, in a fit of sentimentality, he’d wanted to spend Christmas in London. He’d thought he wouldn’t have minded being alone, that he would enjoy the season as a spectator, soaking up everyone else’s good cheer by osmosis. He’d been extremely, colossally wrong.

He had just plotted out an apparition course that would get him—exhausted and irritable no doubt—to his mother’s doorstep in time for Christmas dinner the next day, when the door of the pub opened. Draco turned, and started. Harry Potter had just walked in, and he looked…bad. Haggard, with red rimmed eyes and the kind of slouching posture that practically screamed “I want to be left alone.” So naturally, Draco heard himself calling “Oi, Potter,” before he could stop it. Potter turned and caught his eye, surprise registering on his face. He frowned momentarily, as if considering whether to ignore Draco completely, before shrugging slightly and beginning to make his way over.

Draco could have kicked himself. Since he’d started working at the Ministry two years ago and begun crossing paths with Potter and the rest of his former classmates (even, he was proud to say, approaching friendliness with some of them), the schoolboy crush he’d had at Hogwarts had come roaring back full force, approaching truly embarrassing levels. Pansy teased him mercilessly about it at every opportunity. He couldn’t seem to maintain his cool around Potter, always blushing, or overcompensating with too much snark, or doing stupid shite like drunkenly calling Potter over to his corner of the bar on Christmas Eve when he clearly didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Potter greeted him warily, ordering a scotch, neat, which he promptly drained halfway before turning to Draco and asking, “What are _you_ doing here on Christmas?”

“I could ask you the same thing, although I might have warmed up to it first—never heard of foreplay, Potter?”

Potter snorted into his drink and blushed quite fetchingly, so Draco couldn’t really regret his brazenness. And in fact, he found himself simply telling Potter all about his miserably lonely Christmas, and Potter’s face softened, and his eyes went all sympathetic and understanding, so Draco couldn’t regret that either. He somehow managed to restrain himself from asking why Potter was there alone, instead turning the conversation to Quidditch, and then the interminable frustrations of the Ministry bureaucracy, which they both had quite a bit to say about.

When Draco went to use the loo, he mused to himself that it felt like they’d been talking for hours, at which point he realized they _had_ been talking for hours, and that stopped him in his tracks. Sure, he and Potter had interacted plenty over the past few years, mostly at Ministry functions, but they’d certainly never spent an entire evening alone together, and on Christmas no less. As if they were friends, or something. Draco was surprised that they were getting on so well; he couldn’t imagine that Potter had expected it either. And then Draco got back to the bar, and Potter abruptly drained his drink, cleared his throat loudly and said, “So. You’re bent.”

Draco had a slight panic. Was he that obviously smitten? Was Potter about to kindly remind him that he was very straight and very taken? “Yes…” he replied slowly, “do you have a problem with it?”

“No!” Potter said quickly. “Of course not. I was just— I was wondering—” he broke off, running a hand through his hair and then turning away from Draco to press his forearms to the bar top, clenching his fists. “How did you know?”

Draco considered him for a moment—his gaze was trained desperately on the bar and he was blushing furiously, the tendons on the inside of his wrists standing out.

“Ah,” Draco said gently, ignoring the sudden sensation that his stomach was attempting to escape his body through his throat. He swiveled around to knock his shoulder against Potter’s. “Asking for a friend, are we?”

Potter huffed out a quiet laugh. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, I’d tell this friend of yours that I pretty much always knew—although it was confirmed beyond doubt when I attempted to snog Pansy at the Yule Ball in fourth year—” that earned him a chuckle, “but sometimes it takes people a bit longer to figure it out, and that’s perfectly alright too. You just have to trust yourself. And a little exploration goes a long way,” he added with a smirk.

“That’s nice,” Potter sighed, “But what if _everyone_ expects you to be straight and do the whole, you know, marriage and kids thing?”

“You’re in luck Potter,” Draco pronounced, “As I have extensive experience dealing with the expectations of people who assumed I would marry a woman and beget a brood of little pureblood babies.”

Potter smiled a bit, “Right. And how’d you deal with that?”

“Well, they actually didn’t mind me being gay at all. They just insisted I ‘do my duty to the family’ regardless. Honestly, growing up I thought I would—marry a woman and have _dalliances_ discreetly on the side, you know. In those days I was rather in the habit of doing as my parents expected.” He grimaced. “Then, I spent the first year after the war re-evaluating everything I’d ever thought and every plan I’d ever made for myself.”

Potter made an appreciative noise.

“Quite,” Draco nodded. “And I realized I wasn’t interested in hiding that way. I didn’t want to sneak around and come home to a wife. I wanted to come home to someone I loved properly.” As he said it, he felt the sharp stab of the knowledge that he probably still would never have that. He sighed, “I suppose I’m a hopeless romantic.”

Potter smiled sadly into his glass. “Yeah, I think I am too.”

Over another drink, Draco discovered that, despite Witch Weekly’s annual headlines claiming that _this holiday season_ was finally going to be the one that Potter proposed to Ginny Weasley, they had in fact broken up the week before. It had been amicable—she’d felt something off too, for quite some time—but it was still a breakup, and would take some getting used to, and Potter had excused himself early from the Weasley Christmas Eve dinner.

Over a few more drinks, Potter shared his anxieties: the invasive nature of the press, the upending of his own expectations for his future, the fact that he had no idea how to go about living this new life, now. Potter had been with Weasley since the end of the War, and of course _he_ hadn’t had any illicit _dalliances_ —he was far too noble for that. He didn’t know how to meet men, and he feared the ones he did taking the story to Rita Skeeter.

Draco was only too happy to provide a thorough education on the many and varied opportunities for exploration in the muggle world. Potter, ever the the golden boy, was scandalized.

“ _In the loo?_ ” he goggled, swaying slightly on his barstool, eyes wide.

“In the loo.” Draco confirmed with a solemn nod.

“That’s… a bit intimidating.”

“Is it? Some find the anonymity freeing.”

“I guess. I would just feel a bit… nervous. Since I don’t know what I’m doing at all,” he went red and took a swig. “I’d want to know the other person would tell me if I weren’t doing it right, or something.”

“Another point in favor of muggles—good luck getting one of your adoring fans to honestly tell you you’re _doing it wrong_ ,” Draco snickered, tipping his glass.

Potter rolled his eyes, groaning. “And you, you go about shagging muggles in loos?” Potter asked. “I truly never saw that coming.” He laughed, then sobered. “Does that ever feel… I don’t know, weird?”

“You mean shagging muggles, when I used to be a party to muggle torture?” Draco asked lightly.

“Er… yeah. That.”

“It’s certainly a… tangible reminder of how far I’ve come on my own personal journey along the moral arc of the universe. So, maybe a bit weird sure, but it’s positive.”

Potter nodded. Draco couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Are you really so surprised? I mean, did you think I still hated muggles?” He felt a small twist of sadness in his chest—he knew he couldn’t expect it, but it still hurt never to feel redeemed.

But Harry grinned crookedly, “No, not at all, just it’s one thing being alright with muggles and another thing, shagging them in the loo.” Draco sniffed, pleased. “Besides, why even go to muggle pubs? Surely there are wizarding places? You’re, you know,” he gestured up and down at Draco, “fit and,” he hastily gulped some of his drink, “and you’re actually not half bad to talk to.”

Draco allowed a positively feral grin to spread across his face, “Oh you think I’m fit, do you?”

Potter spluttered. Draco leaned in. “You _do!_ Oh Potter, I’m flattered, but of course I can’t say I’m surprised,” he drawled, leaning in closer, reckless, “I knew you were always staring at me in school, you know. You weren’t that subtle.”

Potter, voice going a bit panicky, waved his hand, “Anyways, you didn’t answer the question.”

“Ah. Well, I could go to a wizarding spot, but I tend not to be interested in the men that are interested in me.”

Potter frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Usually they either want to give it rough to a Death Eater or it’s like a fetish for them.” He shrugged, “I’m not really into either of those scenarios.”

“Oh,” Potter said slowly. “That’s… gross.”

“Indeed.”

“But… you’re not a Death Eater anymore,” Potter frowned.

Draco laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I was. It’ll never be as if it didn’t happen.”

“Well that’s—” Potter inhaled deep and let it out in a huff, “That’s rather depressing. Fancy a shot?”

They had a shot, and Draco, feeling warm from the whiskey and Potter’s undivided attention, cracked a joke about how it was even more depressing to be alone on Christmas, and Potter said, “Isn’t it? I’m surprised you haven’t asked me back to yours yet—" and broke off, coloring.

Draco blinked. And then, before he could think better of it, he leaned in, extending a hand, “Come back to mine?”

They landed just inside the doorway of Draco’s flat—he’d thought it might be a bit presumptuous to apparate them directly into the bedroom—and Potter stumbled slightly. Draco steadied him, hands around Potter's biceps.

“Sorry,” Potter said, a bit breathlessly, “I never quite stick the landing.”

“It’s quite alright,” Draco replied, low. They were standing close. He was vaguely aware that he was still holding on to Potter’s arms. Potter tilted his head and considered Draco intently for just a moment and then—leaping headfirst into things like he always did—he closed the distance between them. And then Draco was _kissing Harry Potter_ , and winding an arm around Potter’s waist and pulling their bodies flush together, and tangling his other hand in that infuriating hair, and tugging just slightly, and then Potter made a _noise_ , and Draco’s head went full of static, so he was a bit confused when Potter pulled away, panting, saying “wait, wait.”

Draco blinked and raised his palms, trying to get a grip on what was even going on, “Sorry, did I do something—”

“No,” Potter responded, “No, you’re— good, it’s just, you know, I haven’t done this before? And I don’t want to make an arse of myself, I meant what I said before—” he looked down, chewing his lower lip for a moment before forcing his gaze back up, “You can tell me what to do, a bit, if that would be—”

Draco cupped Potter’s face in his hands and gently tilted his chin up, brushing their lips together.

“Oh, Potter, it would be my absolute pleasure to tell you what to do,” he murmured, and then they were kissing again, and Draco was walking Potter backwards down the hallway and into his bedroom. And his head was spinning, and he couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and all of a sudden Potter was naked and laid out on his bed looking up at him like any number of Draco’s recent fantasies come to life and it was all so improbable he couldn’t help it, he started giggling. And then Potter was laughing too, and Draco collapsed on top of him and their limbs tangled and Potter flipped them so he was on top, panting and grinning down at Draco, and he wondered for a moment that it was so _easy_ between them, and then Potter’s grin turned wicked and he ground his hips down and Draco stopped thinking at all.

Of course, Potter was completely, almost maddeningly comfortable in his body, inhabiting himself with such abandon and enthusiasm that Draco really wasn’t sure whether much instruction would be necessary, on his part. But eventually, he lifted his mouth from Potter’s neck to ask, softly, “What do you want to do?”

Potter hummed and grinned again, “Whatever you’ll let me.”

Draco felt a thrill up his spine and leaned in, breathing, “Do you want to fuck me?”

Potter’s eyes widened and he snaked a hand into Draco’s hair, kissing him fiercely for a moment before pulling back to reply, “Oh _god_ , fuck, yes.”

Draco taught Potter how to finger him open, slowly, teasing at first, and Potter was careful and attentive, and so gentle Draco almost couldn’t bear it. When he brushed two fingers against Draco’s prostate and Draco cried out, Potter stayed on the spot, draping his body over Draco’s to murmur in his ear, “Right there? Is that good?” and Draco moaned, “ _God, yes,_ ” and Potter mouthed down the back of Draco’s neck and kept at it, slow and steady until Draco was hot and shivering, incoherent, pressing his face into the sheets and whimpering. And when he managed to form the word “please,” Potter breathed over the shell of his ear, “Could you come just like this? Just from my fingers?” Draco whined and nodded violently. “Fuck,” Potter groaned, drawing himself back upright. “I could too. I could come just watching myself do this to you.” Draco made a high-pitched sound and bucked back furiously. “But I won’t.” Potter withdrew and Draco gasped, writhing desperately. “I’m going to come inside you.” He added a third finger.

When he was ready, and said so, Draco turned to watch as Potter slicked himself and nudged against the entrance to Draco’s body, teasing him again. He had laid his other hand carefully on Draco’s hip, and was absently rubbing his thumb in circles against Draco’s skin. Draco’s chest clenched; he squeezed his eyes shut.

Distantly, he heard himself whimper gratefully as Potter began to press in, throwing his head back on a long, low moan as he slowly seated himself fully. Potter paused for a moment, breathing heavily, “alright?” he asked, and Draco responded emphatically in the affirmative. Potter set a languid pace, again, as if he were calculating exactly how to drive Draco absolutely mad, which he probably was. But Draco found that he couldn’t really mind it, not when Potter was fucking him like this, running his hands softly over Draco’s back and murmuring depravities in his ear. It was so different than he would have expected—almost excruciatingly intimate, the slow drag of Potter’s cock filling him up, the sound of his voice, vibrating low across Draco’s back. Draco shivered. He desperately wanted to touch himself, but he held back. He was so close, had been for ages it felt like, but he needed— “ _More_.”

Potter wrapped his arms around Draco’s torso and lifted him upright, back flush against Potter’s chest. Intertwining their fingers, he braced Draco’s hands against the wall above the headboard and thrust in again, a little harder. Draco gasped and whined, and Potter wrapped an arm around his chest, nuzzling into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

“More,” he panted, “you can—fuck me—harder—"

Potter chuckled, low, in his ear, “No I can’t, or I’ll come.”

“Isn’t that rather the point?” Draco tried for a haughty tone, but it came out a bit breathless.

Potter chuckled again and tweaked Draco’s nipple, drawing out a very undignified whine before Draco could stop himself.

Draco huffed, and in retaliation, clenched tightly around Potter inside of him, and Potter certainly had not been expecting _that_.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he growled and slammed into Draco, who cried out—his control breaking too, he took one of his hands off the wall, but Potter was quick, slipping his fingers underneath Draco’s so that Potter’s hand was on the inside. He wrapped around Draco and murmured, “show me.”

At his touch, Draco let out a strangled moan, arching back, and Potter was fucking into him, panting harshly into his ear and Draco was dizzy with it, his breath coming out in high-pitched whines. And then he was spilling over Potter’s fingers, wound together with his own, and his entire body tightened around Potter, and he heard Potter cry out hoarsely as his hips jerked and then slowed, and he collapsed forward onto Draco’s back, dropping them both down onto the bed.

Draco tried to catch his breath, but it was a bit difficult with Potter dead-weighted on top of him. He hadn’t made to move off Draco at all—he hadn’t even pulled out. Draco didn’t really mind it, the suffocating weight of Potter draped over him, Potter still inside him, but he did have that irritating need to breathe. Elbowing at Potter’s limp form, he managed to gasp out a protest, and Potter obligingly and apologetically rolled off of him. Draco flopped onto his back and sucked in a lungful of air, throwing an arm over his face. After a beat, he waved a hand, sending a gentle cleaning charm over them both. At that, Potter started, and Draco felt a hand hesitantly brush across his chest.

“Was that… alright?”

Draco dropped his arm to find Potter peering anxiously down at him. _Alright?_ He began to laugh.

“Yes, Potter, you’ve absolutely shagged my brains out—frankly, I’d thought that was obvious—so for the love of Merlin stop looking at me like that and go to sleep.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Here?”

“Well,” Draco backtracked, “you can certainly leave, if you like. But it’s late, and you’re welcome to stay as well.” He arranged his expression into one that would not betray which of those options he preferred.

Potter smiled a small, sleepy smile, “I’d like to stay—if you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Draco yawned, and waving his hand, extinguished the lights and cast a teeth-cleaning charm on both of them. He felt Potter shiver against him in the dark.

After a moment, “I don’t like sleeping alone,” Potter whispered, so softly Draco almost couldn’t hear him. Draco reached out for him, brushing their fingers together. “Neither do I.”

\---

Draco awoke slowly, with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his head pounding. Merlin, he felt like utter shite. It took a few labored breaths to register the presence of another body spooned up against his chest. A body that was firm, and warm, and attached to a head of messy black hair—it all came rushing back to him. He’d called Potter over at the bar last night, and they’d talked, and it had been easy and fun, and they’d come back to Draco’s and shagged and _that_ had been—Draco suppressed a shiver.

Slowly, carefully, he wordlessly summoned his wand, and then two vials of hangover potion from the medicine cabinet, trying his utmost not to disturb Potter. He’d just managed to uncork his vial and tip it back when Potter started to stir, groaning. Draco tightened his grip around Potter’s torso, dipping his head to nose at the back of Potter’s neck, trailing his lips along to softly murmur “good morning” in Potter’s ear, then gently nipping his earlobe. Potter made a pained noise, and Draco quickly brought the second vial of hangover potion around. Potter swallowed, heaved a couple of deep, deliberate breaths, sighed in relief, and then—went completely stiff in Draco’s arms.

Draco felt it in the back of his neck first—the icy sting of dread, working its way down his spine and twisting his gut. He took a deep, steady breath. “Alright?”

“Last night… we—oh god,” Potter moaned.

Draco unwound his arm from Potter’s torso and closed his eyes. He’d been a fool.

Potter swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, hunched over slightly, still with his back to Draco. “Ok.” He muttered to himself, “This is fine. It’s fine. Deep breaths.”

“…Potter?” Draco tried hesitantly, “Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

Potter stood, abruptly, and began throwing his clothes on, all crooked and wrinkled, looking anywhere but at Draco.

“I’m fine!” he repeated, sounding rather like he was on the verge of a panic attack. “I just need to go home—” dressed, he finally turned to Draco, eyes and fingers twitching like a trapped animal. “This was—” he shook his head frantically, “I don’t know. Just please—please don’t let this get in the papers?”

Draco finally sat up. He wanted to ask, _is that really what you think of me?_ But he had never been brave. He nodded tightly.

“I should go.” Potter said.

Draco nodded again. “Floo’s in the sitting room, back out the hall on the left.”

And then Potter was gone. Draco remained sitting up, listening to his footsteps recede, waiting for the telltale rush of the flames. When it died out and he was alone again, he crawled back underneath the covers, drawing the duvet up over his head. He placed a hand in the warm space Potter had left behind, and he breathed slowly, and he did not come out for a long while.


	2. Once bitten, twice shy

It had been three months since Harry had seen Malfoy, which, by his calculations, meant they were overdue for a run-in. It’s not that Harry had _kept track_ of when he saw Malfoy, before, it’s just that, when he thought back over the years preceding what he had taken to calling The Christmas Incident, he noted that he usually ran into Malfoy in passing about once every month or two. Harry might see him in the ministry cafeteria at lunch, or by the lifts at the end of the day, or coming out of Kingsley’s office with his financial reports when Harry was stopping by for a spot of tea on his break. It wasn’t at all odd, he firmly told the Hermione-shaped voice in his head, that he remembered where, or when, or how frequently he was used to running into Malfoy. He simply had a finely tuned Malfoy-awareness, like a sixth sense, honed by years of careful attention at Hogwarts. Conveniently, now that he was once again curious about Malfoy’s whereabouts, he found that his awareness hadn’t turned off, or gone dormant, as he might have supposed. Instead, it turned out that his brain had been carefully cataloguing all of his interactions with Malfoy over the past two years and quietly filing them away, and now he was excruciatingly aware that he had gone much longer without seeing Malfoy than could possibly be considered normal.

Harry thought about Malfoy a lot. The sound he had made when Harry pushed into him, and how Harry had looked down and _seen_ —

He thought about that a lot, particularly in the shower. But he also thought about talking to Malfoy at the bar, how he had really listened to Harry, offered thoughtful advice, made him laugh. Harry had had a good time that night, even though he’d ended up in a bit over his head with the whole sex thing, and once he had calmed down somewhat, he had actually been looking forward to seeing Malfoy again. Maybe they could be friends? Harry didn’t have that many gay friends—Charlie was never around, and Luna was… Luna. Malfoy had seemed willing to show him the ropes a little, and Harry appreciated it—more than he expected. But the more time went by without him running into Malfoy at work, the more he started to suspect that he might have been… less than perfectly polite, when he had left. Harry really had no idea what the proper morning-after etiquette was. He’d only ever slept with Ginny, and he certainly didn’t know what to expect when it came to blokes, much less Malfoy. Surely Malfoy hadn’t expected him to stay—it was Christmas morning, and they were ex-enemies who’d somehow ended up getting pissed and shagging—what were they going to do, make cocoa and open presents in front of the fire together? Definitely not that. But when he cared to look closely at his memory of leaving, which was not often, he had a prickly sense that no matter how casual or unexpected the liaison, it was probably not the best manners to practically sprint out of there the way he had. If he was ever brave enough to tell Hermione what happened, which he wasn’t, he thought she might give him that sad frown and say, “I’m disappointed in you, Harry.” And Harry couldn’t bear the thought of _that_ , so he had simply resolved to be very friendly and amiable when he saw Malfoy next, and then they could get back on alright terms. The trouble was that he hadn’t seen Malfoy since.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Harry had lingered by the lifts around the time he knew the financial department cleared out for the day. He’d timed his own trips to the cafeteria when he figured Malfoy was most likely to be eating lunch. He had even gone to the last three installments of the monthly pub quiz night at that trendy bar that had opened in Diagon last year. A load of the younger Ministry employees attended the pub quiz religiously, and Harry knew Malfoy was one of them because even though he himself wasn’t a regular, Hermione was. She’d been quite pleased when Harry showed up, but he hadn’t been a very helpful teammate. He mostly just brooded over his drink, watching the door in case Malfoy walked in (he didn’t).

Well, Harry had had enough. On Thursday afternoon, he just so happened to be chatting with Roberta in payroll as she finished the monthly expense reports. As she was about to drop them into the “out” box, Harry volunteered to walk them over to financial himself—he’d been on desk duty all day, you know, he’d appreciate the excuse to stretch his legs. He didn’t let himself think too deeply about what he was doing on his way over there—maybe he would run into Malfoy, maybe not. But Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. Harry dropped off the reports, made polite small talk with the head witch in charge of payroll—yes, he had no complaints about Roberta, she was splendid and always helped him get his overtime paperwork in on time, really, he had only walked the reports down to get a bit of exercise—and turned to go, wondering if perhaps Malfoy had been kidnapped, or moved abroad.

But on his way out, as he was passing a rather noisy group in the break room, he noticed the closed office door directly opposite (bit of a shitty spot for an office, right across from the break room, no wonder the door was closed) and through the window, a flash of pale blond hair. Malfoy’s office. Harry knocked. The door clicked open in front of him right away; Malfoy must have opened it without even looking up to see who it was, as he continued scratching numbers onto a scroll of complicated looking equations while Harry stood frozen in the doorway. After a moment, Malfoy looked up expectantly, surprise flashing across his face before he schooled his features and cleared his throat. “Potter. Can I help you?”

Harry stepped across the threshold and thrust his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “Er, I was just in the area,” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, “and I noticed your office here, thought I’d, um, drop in and see how it’s going?”

Malfoy regarded him steadily for a few seconds. “You were just in the area?”

“Well, I was dropping off the monthly Auror expense reports. Usually we send them through the memo system but I’d been at my desk all day so I thought I’d just walk them over…” he trailed off awkwardly, as Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.

“Right. So, can I help you?”

Harry frowned. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to be this standoffish. He suddenly remembered that they had hated each other for all their formative years, only cooling off into mutual dislike after the war, and finally settling into bland politeness since Malfoy had started at the Ministry. Maybe Malfoy had regretted the whole night? He took a deep breath.

“No, I just, I haven’t seen you in a while and I saw your door here and thought I’d say hi. That’s it, really…”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “And, why, exactly, would you do that?”

Harry felt extremely out of his depth. He took a couple of steps into the office and lowered his voice. “I mean, we—” he gestured between them. “We slept together!” he whispered, feeling his face heat up. “I’ll admit I don’t know how any of this works, but I’d think that means I could ask how you’re doing if I run into you?”

Malfoy snorted. “Allow me to explain then, Potter _._ Yes, we slept together. And afterwards, you made your feelings on the matter quite clear. I, considerate partner that I am,” Malfoy’s face twisted, “was perfectly willing to indulge your need to maintain your pure and righteous savior reputation. Thus,” he gestured between them, “I act as if nothing has changed between us, as I gathered that was your wish.”

“That…” Harry said slowly, “that wasn’t my wish.”

Malfoy drew in a deep breath. “Potter, I can’t—”

“I’m sorry.” Harry interrupted. “I see I’ve been a bit of an arse.”

 _“Understatement of the century_ ,” Malfoy muttered.

“I really am sorry. I probably wasn’t as, er, polite as I could have been, when I left.” Malfoy nodded tersely. “And anyways, I thought afterwards, that, you know, I had a surprisingly good time with you, at the bar.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged, flushing again. “I thought— well, I thought maybe we could be friends?” Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. “Or at least, like, friendly.” Harry added hurriedly. “Friendlier than we’ve been, in the past.” Malfoy closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and let out a long-suffering sort of sigh. The silence stretched.

“Ok, um, I’ll just—” Harry started moving toward the door.

“Alright.”

“Oh—really? Ok, yeah, brilliant. Right then. So, how about the Tornadoes last weekend, eh?”

\---

“ _Friends!_ ” Pansy shrieked, horrified. “He asked you to be _friends_?” They were curled up across from each other on Draco’s sofa; he’d flooed her to come over immediately as soon as he’d gotten home from work.

“Yes,” Draco moaned through his hands. “I’ve been offered a formal invitation into the friend zone.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and swatted him on the shoulder. “Haven’t you heard, Draco, the friend zone was invented by sad chauvinists to avoid taking responsibility for their horrible personalities.” She sniffed, “I certainly won’t allow you to endorse the idea, much less relegate yourself to it. Anyways dear, what did you say?!”

He lifted his head and reached for his wine, draining it and setting it back on the coffee table. Pansy promptly refilled it.

“I said yes, of course. What else could I have said? I couldn’t exactly tell Potter to go fuck off, could I?”

She chuckled darkly, “no, I suppose you couldn’t, although I’d have paid good money to see that.” She raised her glass and they clinked, both drinking deeply. “So, what, you’re friends now?”

“Well, we talked about quidditch for 15 minutes and then he left. I’m not sure I’d call that friends, exactly. Friend- _ly_ , Potter said.”

“Right,” Pansy nodded, taking another sip of wine. “And are you alright?”

Draco laughed lightly and looked down into his glass. “Of course not.”

Pansy stayed with him all evening, through dinner and another bottle of wine, and a cathartic hour blaring Madonna in the sitting room and dancing on the furniture (after the war, Draco and Pansy had embarked on a personal quest to better understand muggle culture, which hadn’t been too successful, but had resulted in a mutual obsession with 80s muggle music). By the time she left, Draco was quite distracted and thoroughly exhausted. Pansy always knew exactly what he needed. She had found him, on New Year’s Eve, still in bed at four o’ clock in the afternoon and more than a little drunk. He’d been in a haze since Christmas, not leaving the house except to pick up takeaway and booze, eating on his sofa and drinking in bed. She’d taken one look at him and gotten right in the bed, hit him with a sobering charm and insisted he tell her everything. When he said _“Pans, he asked me not to let it get in the papers,”_ she positively swelled with indignation—she was a junior editor at Witch Weekly, so she took it a bit personally on top of the insult to Draco’s character—and offered to run an assortment of vicious hit pieces speculating about various aspects of Potter’s personal life. At the end, she sat across from him, knees touching, took his hands in hers, made him say five things he liked about himself, and then take ten deep breaths with his eyes closed. And when he opened them, she told him that it was time to snap out of this funk, no more feeling sorry for himself, she’d be damned if he ruined New Years by moping about pathetically, and frankly, Potter wasn’t worth it, the speccy git, and there were going to be loads of better-looking blokes at Blaise’s that night, so he had better take a shower, for Merlin’s sake.

Getting ready for work the morning after Potter's overture, Draco tried to work out how royally fucked he might be. Truly, he was surprised that Potter had come to his office. He had, of course, been avoiding Potter like the plague. Much to his own chagrin, he’d been aware of Potter’s rough schedule for about a year now, on account of having a gigantic crush on him, so that was finally put to some good use by allowing Draco to effectively evade Potter in the Ministry cafeteria and the break rooms and the hallways and the atrium and the queues by the lifts. He’d known it couldn’t last forever. But he’d hoped that seeing less of Potter would help him move on. He certainly hadn’t expected Potter to ask to be _friends_. And it was just the sort of thing that he _liked_ about Potter: the absolute idiocy of approaching your childhood rival-slash-recent sexual regret and earnestly asking to be friends like they were still eleven years old, honestly, who does that? Of bloody course, in attempting a platonic overture, Potter only made Draco _more_ hopelessly attracted to him. He sighed. Well, at least they were just friend- _ly_. Surely Potter wouldn’t actually try to be his _friend_.


	3. I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye

Harry Potter desperately wanted Draco Malfoy to be his friend. He could hardly believe it himself—Malfoy, of all people. Of course, Harry had known that Malfoy had changed after the war, everyone knew that, but Harry still hadn’t expected to want to be his _friend_. He’d thought the polite distance they had achieved in recent years was enough. But he found himself stopping down in the financial offices on Mondays after the Tornadoes had played and following Malfoy to his seat to eat together when he ran into him in the cafeteria line. The problem was that Malfoy didn’t seem too keen on being Harry’s friend, or at least, not as keen as Harry would like him to be. Malfoy was everything he had been on Christmas—sharp and incisive, witty, surprisingly warm—but just a little bit _less_. He was holding back, and Harry couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t already been deeply, almost shockingly, intimate—no use pretending they didn’t know each other that well. It was driving him batty. But Harry was nothing if not persistent. He even kept showing up to the pub quiz, once Malfoy resumed his regular attendance. And then, Harry realized that Malfoy didn’t have a team. The other regulars had formed standing teams that competed fiercely month-to-month. Pub quiz was the subject of more than one betting pool, and the rankings every month determined who was buying drinks for whom all night. The core team members were impressively dedicated. The drop-ins got divvied up randomly every month to keep the numbers roughly even. But Malfoy, who was indisputably a regular, got shuffled around just like Harry. It was even more puzzling because Malfoy clearly excelled. He knew all the wizarding history (had he actually stayed awake in Professor Binns’ class?), he ran circles around most of the others when it came to the arts and culture categories (especially the pretentious sorts), and Harry had even watched once, astonished, as he demolished the entire group in a round on muggle pop music. Malfoy was knowledgeable, and quick, and just as competitive as he had been when they’d played quidditch at Hogwarts. In other words, the teams should have been fighting tooth and nail over him. But every month he simply got slotted in wherever there was space. And Harry had been watching him, and his demeanor always went very cool and detached when he got assigned, like he didn’t care at all which team he got on, which meant that he cared very much.

So finally, Harry asked Hermione about it, and she raised her eyebrows and said, “Well, it’s Malfoy.” And when Harry pointed out that he was one of the best players there and everyone seemed to enjoy his company, she frowned and said, “Well yes, he is an asset, and I suppose we all think he’s alright now, but you know, it’s _Malfoy_.” And Harry said, “Right,” and took a swig of beer, and then when Malfoy walked in a couple of minutes later Harry loudly called him over to their table and told Ernie, who was in charge of teams, that they would both be playing on Hermione’s team that night. Most everyone in earshot raised their eyebrows at that, including Malfoy himself, but Harry just shrugged and scooted over to make room next to him in the booth. Malfoy was fantastic, and they won, and at the end, Hermione (after a whispered conversation with the rest of the team while Malfoy had been at the bar) graciously asked Malfoy whether he’d like to join their team, and he accepted in a rather stilted, formal manner, but Harry could tell he was pleased. Harry didn’t mind at all that Hermione hadn’t asked _him_ to join their team—he’d been even more rubbish than usual, due to Malfoy’s incredibly distracting presence next to him. It wasn’t that Harry was _interested_ in Malfoy—he wasn’t, not at all. They’d had sex (really incredible sex), so it was only natural that Harry would notice the shift in Malfoy’s throat as he swallowed his drink, or the soft shine of his hair in the low light. He couldn’t help but remember the press of Malfoy’s body against his whenever their knees jostled together under the table. But that didn’t have to mean anything. They had chemistry; Harry was willing to admit that by now. At first, he’d simply thought it would always be that good with a man, that he’d been so overwhelmed by the encounter simply because he was finally experiencing what he was _supposed_ to feel during sex. But after more than a few nights at the muggle clubs Malfoy had recommended, Harry had realized that sex with men could be mediocre too, and Malfoy had indeed been that good. Still though, he was only just figuring out how to be friends with Malfoy. So when Malfoy turned to grin at him after sweeping the Post-League Careers of Famous Quidditch Players category, and Harry felt a soft shiver of pleasure run down his spine, he was pretty confident that was only the warm fuzzy feeling you get when you’re making a new friend.

\---

In the three months that Draco had been a regular member of Hermione Granger’s pub quiz team, he’d started to notice some subtle shifts in the way he was treated. He’d originally shown up at the pub quiz looking for an outlet for his competitive spirit and arcane knowledge about wizarding history and culture. He’d felt sick with nerves that first night as he walked in, terrified that he would be turned away. But he had been treated politely, if not warmly, and he had been satisfied with that. He was happy just to participate, to bounce around between teams of his peers who didn’t object to his mere presence, treated him cordially, even. He didn’t think he could expect anything more, really. But recently, some of them had started to greet him when he arrived, in a genuinely friendly way; Penelope Clearwater asked how his weekend had been, or Padma Patil approached him with the latest gossip out of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Granger of course was unfailingly polite, and occasionally engaged him in truly fascinating conversation about wizarding politics or magical theory between rounds—it was still a bit awkward, but he genuinely enjoyed her company. It was all down to Potter of course, who’d continued to be bafflingly friendly after strong-arming Draco onto the team (a team he wasn’t even part of himself, by the way). Everyone followed his lead of course, despite their obvious surprise and confusion. Potter pretended not to notice, or perhaps he really didn’t notice. He always was blithely oblivious to the power he had over his peers—the way they looked up to him, deferred to him, adored him, really. No one was immune, not even Draco, despite his best efforts. He had been doing his utmost to maintain some distance from Potter, to convince himself not to want anything more out of their odd little _friendship_ , but every time Potter stuck his head through Draco’s office door, or tapped his shoulder in the cafeteria line, he felt keenly the certain futility of his attempts. He remembered what Potter’s hair felt like in his hands, or the taste of his mouth, and he couldn’t pretend.

So on a balmy Friday in late September, Malfoy strode into the pub and took his customary seat beside Susan Bones (his favorite teammate—she didn’t talk much, she had a very dry sense of humor, and she was a dab hand at spell trivia). She caught him up on the latest goings-on in the Auror Department and he regaled the team with an incredibly boring story about that month’s budgetary numbers. He’d just sat back with his whiskey when Potter walked in, followed closely by the Gryffindor who’d been their quidditch captain before him–Draco was sure he knew the man’s name, but a strange weight had settled in the base of his brain, radiating static and disrupting the rest of his thoughts. To his horror, Potter slid into the booth next to him (despite not being an official team member, he simply always sat with Granger and no one protested), grinning shyly and saying, “You all remember Oliver, yeah?” And then everyone was playing catch-up on their lives since Hogwarts and Draco was sitting extremely still and wondering when was too soon to get up and go back to the bar.

Then Wood caught his eye. “ _Malfoy_?” he said rather incredulously, “I haven’t seen you since you were skiving off games to whinge about a little scratch on your arm,” he laughed. There was a split second of painful silence, and Potter grimaced beside him.

“Yes, well, I was an awful prat back then,” Draco said airily.

Everyone laughed, and Potter elbowed him, “Lucky you’re much better now.”

“Much?” Bones put in archly, “I’ll believe it when you buy the next round.” She winked at him.

Draco did buy the next round, and Wood was quite cordial to him after that. Of course, everyone else at the table was delighted that Potter had brought him along, particularly when he absolutely decimated the other teams in a round of questions on British League history. Wood appeared to be some sort of quidditch savant, spouting off statistics and rosters and all-time great plays with a truly insane gleam in his eyes. Or perhaps he was extremely sane and Draco was just biased. In any case, Draco was soon significantly more drunk than he usually got at trivia and expending a considerable amount of his mental energy avoiding looking at Potter and ensuring that their arms didn’t touch whenever either of them moved. In his distraction, he missed an obvious question on the prehistoric troll wars and, frustrated, got up to go to the bar again. To his even greater frustration, Potter joined him. He bumped their elbows together as they were waiting on their drinks, and Draco stiffened.

“What’s up with you tonight? You seem a bit… tense.”

“Do I?” Draco shrugged, “Long week I suppose. _You_ seem quite relaxed over there with Wood. How long has that been going on?” He was probably being humiliatingly transparent, he knew, but he was too drunk to care.

Potter flushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, just a couple of weeks? I ran into him at the Puddlemere after party that weekend when they stomped on the Cannons.”

Draco snorted, “Everyone stomps on the Cannons.”

Potter laughed ruefully and Draco felt suddenly vindictive. He knew this was what Potter deserved—a big strong quidditch star with a kind smile and an easy rapport with the rest of Potter’s friends, the type of relationship the wizarding world would fawn over. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you two in the papers yet,” he slurred snidely.

Potter blanched. “Well, this is actually the first time we’ve really gone out in public, so I suppose you won’t have long to wait.”

“Ah, then let me say I am honored to be a part of your grand debut,” he said with a mocking bow, straightening up to take his drink from the bartender and slap his money on the counter.

“Malfoy…” Potter began uneasily, but Draco waved him off, swaying slightly and inclining his head towards their table. “Come on Potter, time to get back to the festivities.” Potter still looked a bit distressed, but he followed Draco off the bar, and thankfully didn’t try say anything else. Draco was relieved; he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth again.

On Monday he saw the photos in the Prophet: Potter and Wood, walking out of the pub hand-in-hand, surrounded by friends. Potter was laughing at something, knocking their shoulders together. The photos were accompanied by a block of text speculating wildly about his prior dating history with men ( _had he been testing the waters discreetly while still with Ginny?_ ) to how serious he was with Wood (“ _Oliver’s swept him off his feet—I hear he’s looking for rings already,” said an unnamed source_ ). At the very end was a line of text: _Mr. Potter refused to comment except to request that his privacy be respected._ Draco stared at the photos for a few moments, imagining what the coverage would have been had it been him holding Potter’s hand. Then he threw the paper into the fire and flooed into work.

\---

Harry skipped the October pub quiz to break up with Oliver. He found himself at Ron and Hermione’s that Saturday, sprawled on the couch after eating far too much takeaway curry and drinking far too much red wine. It hadn’t been that difficult really, calling it off. Oliver was a good bloke and neither of them had gotten too attached—he took it well when Harry said he thought they would be better off as friends, clapping him heartily on the back and wishing him the best.

“It’s good,” Hermione mused, “to explore a little bit—”

“Sow your wild oats, Harry!” Ron shouted from the floor, raising a bottle of wine in Harry’s direction. Hermione giggled, refilling her own glass.

Harry laughed, “I’ve explored! I’ve explored all over Muggle London,” he smirked.

Hermione shrieked and practically toppled out of her armchair. Ron, laughing, said “Good on you, mate. I’d never even have thought to ease into it at the muggle bars—brilliant, really.”

Hermione nodded sagely, “Yes Harry that was rather clever, the anonymity must have been a relief.”

Harry thought about Malfoy frowning sympathetically as Harry shared his anxieties, listing off which establishments he ought to try first.

“Although,” she cocked her head thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t have expected you to leap right into things with a bunch of strangers Harry,” her eyes crinkled, “you’re such a romantic.”

“Ah,” Harry cleared his throat; he could feel himself blushing furiously, “erm, yes, well—”

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione sat forward in her chair, “who was it and why didn’t you tell us?” she cried reproachfully.

Harry clenched his teeth against a sudden panic welling up his throat. If he said Malfoy, he would have to tell them the whole story, there was no getting around it. Hermione would scold him, and he would feel even more terrible than he already did. But more than that, she would ask him _questions_ about it, and something in him shied away from that prospect, the same thing that made his stomach twist sometimes when he looked at Malfoy or remembered something from that night. It felt like guilt, but also fear—the instinct to avoid examining too closely what had happened that night, and how he felt about it.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said. Ron’s eyebrows shot up and Hermione frowned and opened her mouth in a way that Harry just knew meant a question he didn’t want to answer was coming; he held up his hand to stop her. “It’s nothing, just, we were drunk, and I—” he rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m not sure,” he said honestly, “it’s a bit of a mess.” Hermione nodded and asked a question about the muggle bars and Harry took a sip of wine and thought about Malfoy’s low voice asking him, “ _what do you want to do?_ ”

\---

For the rest of the weekend, Harry felt on edge and off balance. He kept thinking about Malfoy and feeling that odd panic again. On Monday, he stopped by Malfoy’s office, hoping to ease the tension in his chest. Malfoy greeted him with a snide remark about how perhaps he ought to submit a recommendation to decrease the funding for the Auror Department, since it seemed like Harry didn’t have enough work to do. Harry thought about his smooth, posh voice and the way it had broken, hoarsely forming the word “ _more_.” He snapped his attention back halfway through Malfoy asking why Harry hadn’t been at the pub quiz and found himself saying, “I was breaking up with Oliver.” Malfoy’s brows knitted together for the briefest moment before he smoothed his face into something resembling placid concern, offering his apologies and well wishes, to which Harry simply replied, “It’s alright. He talked about quidditch too much.”

Malfoy laughed delightedly and said, “Do you know, I thought the same thing, but he seemed like a nice bloke otherwise, whereas I’ve a track record of being a judgmental arse, so I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

For a moment, Harry was forcefully reminded of Malfoy standing over him stark naked, that hysterical laugh bubbling out of him, looking down at Harry with surprise and wonder in his eyes.

Chuckling himself, he responded without thinking, “I’ve got you and Ron both for regular quidditch talk and it turns out I actually can’t take much more.”

Malfoy blinked at him, and the panic in his chest spiked. Did he _have_ Malfoy? What did that even mean?

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Malfoy frowned. “Yes, Potter, as unlikely as it once seemed, I do believe we have become friends.”

Harry thought about Malfoy saying, “ _Yes, Potter, you’ve absolutely shagged my brains out_.”

“My friends call me Harry.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened and Harry heard him take in a sharp breath, as if he were in pain.

“Harry,” he said slowly, hesitantly, flushing radiantly, and Harry swayed on the spot with the sudden force of revelation. He wanted Malfoy to call him Harry. He _wanted him_. He imagined Malfoy saying _Harry_ like that as he pushed inside him, and he saw clearly the source of his fear. He didn’t just want to bend Malfoy over his desk and fuck him again, right then and there (although he certainly did want that). He wanted to call him Draco. He wanted to snog him in the Ministry lifts. He wanted to take him home after pub quiz and suck him off on the sofa. He wanted—

“Harry?” Malfoy had appeared directly in front of him, frowning concernedly. “Are you alright? I was going to say you can call me Draco, but I don’t want to trigger an aneurysm.”

Harry shook himself and forced a laugh, fisting his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out.

“Ah, yes, Draco,” he was mortified to hear his voice cracking, “I’ve just remembered something—got to go, see you at the Halloween party?”

“Yes,” Draco frowned, “but are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine!” Harry choked out, his voice strangled and oddly high-pitched. “Urgent Auror business! Must be going! Bye then!” He backed out of Draco’s office as Draco was making a deeply perplexed goodbye, chest heaving as he fled toward the lifts. He ended up back at his desk with no recollection of the return journey and spent the rest of the afternoon staring blankly at his mound of paperwork, considering and reconsidering and arriving again and again at the inevitable conclusion that he fancied Draco Malfoy.


	4. My god, I thought you were someone to rely on // Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on

The Ministry Halloween party was an extravagant affair, held in the atrium. In the post-war years, there had been a push to encourage costumes in the muggle tradition, and now the Muggle Liaison Office played a major role in the planning. Harry and Ron had dressed as muggle policemen, in embarrassingly tight _(that’s the point!_ Ron had encouraged him with a saucy wink _, show off of those biceps!_ ), short-sleeve, white button-down shirts with little badges on the pockets, and equally tight black trousers with shiny boots and a belt equipped with various accoutrements, including what the package had assured him were real, functioning handcuffs. A cute young bartender had been eyeing him flirtatiously and giving him extremely generous pours, so by the time Harry was two drinks in he was already feeling a bit warm and fuzzy. He was chatting with Seamus and Lee, both of whom worked in Magical Games and Sports, when a sudden movement from the floo in the corner caught his eye. A tall, lean figure was unfolding gracefully and turning to survey the room—Harry’s jaw dropped. It was Draco. His hair had been charmed a bright, shimmering red-orange, with bits of the natural platinum showing at the tips, and it was slicked back on the sides and teased into a pompadour on top. His eyelids were painted like a sunset, and Harry was certain he was wearing blue mascara. He had glitter on his cheekbones, for Merlin’s sake, and a bright scarlet lightning bolt painted diagonally across his face, edged in electric blue. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. His lithe frame was swathed in a clingy jumpsuit of some shimmering silver fabric, with electric blue and scarlet pinstripes to match his face paint. It was almost cruel—the neckline was cut like a suit jacket, with a crisp lapel, leaving a deep V of torso exposed and—Harry gulped—there was glitter along his collarbones too, and down his sternum. Seamus and Lee’s voices faded into a distant buzz as his feet started moving across the room of their own accord.

A few feet away, Draco’s gaze caught on him and he blushed under the glitter, smiling a little. Harry’s breath caught, and then he had stopped in front of Draco, blinking dumbly with his mouth hanging open and his face getting hot and he finally managed to get out, “Hi,” and immediately wanted to sink into the ground.

Draco said, “Hello, muggle policeman?” and Harry said, “Yeah, and you’re David Bowie? You look… I mean… Wow.”

Draco flushed further, and surely it was criminal to blush that prettily and frequently, and in that outfit no less—Harry was an Auror, maybe he could bring Draco in for disturbing the peace…? he did have those muggle handcuffs…

This train of thought was interrupted by a loudly clearing throat on his left. He started, realizing that Theodore Nott had been standing beside Draco the whole time, dressed in a flaring black trench coat with a high collar and frameless dark sunglasses in an angular oval shape. Harry recognized him as the main character in a muggle movie franchise that had been big that year.

“Nott,” he said, shaking himself and extending a hand, “How are you? You’re looking well.”

“Oh, I’m _excellent_ ,” he drawled, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. “And you? You’re looking… hot and bothered.”

Harry made a strangled noise.

“Well, I’m off to the bar… I’ll leave you two alone.” Nott winked and strode away, trench coat billowing.

Harry gaped after him for a moment and turned to Draco, who said tightly, “Don’t mind Theo, he’s just taking the piss.”

“Right,” Harry laughed nervously, “Well I suppose I wasn’t being very subtle… I mean, you look pretty spectacular—the costume! The costume is spectacular.” God, he should never open his mouth again for the rest of his life.

But Draco preened a little and thanked him, and there was a giddy feeling rising in Harry’s chest and he said, “Fancy a drink?” And when Draco said yes, Harry took his elbow to lead him over to the bar, his heart beating wildly.

Harry couldn’t let Draco out of his sight. It was taking all of his self-control to stop himself from pushing Draco up against every nearby surface and snogging him senseless, so instead he found himself hovering by Draco’s side, enthusiastically shaking his colleagues’ hands and standing a bit too close so their shoulders brushed. He even brought Draco around to hobnob with the high-level bureaucrats he normally detested talking to. Draco, of course, charmed them utterly (and Harry saw how they wrinkled their noses when he first walked up, the utter twats), easily following even the most boring discussions of Ministry political minutiae, and being generally brilliant. Harry couldn’t stand it for long though, and he placed his hand on the small of Draco’s back, leading him over to a group of Aurors in the corner by the bar. It took Harry a few moments to realize that he hadn’t dropped his hand once they’d started talking, and he was just standing there, touching Draco in a way that was so familiar, almost possessive, and he clenched his jaw against a sudden spike of arousal and his fingers tightened involuntarily. He felt Draco tense, and then, slowly, he relaxed into Harry’s touch, and leaned _in_ , barely resting his upper arm against Harry’s chest. It was just casual enough that anyone who glanced at them would see friends who had had a few drinks, swaying into each others’ space. But nobody could see them, Harry realized, at least not from behind—they were at the outskirts of the party with their backs facing the wall, and Harry was _touching Draco_ and no one was paying attention. Harry’s breathing had gone slightly ragged, and he wasn’t able to focus on any of the conversations going on around him. All he could think of was the memory of Draco’s bare skin under his hands. He pressed the heel of his hand slightly against Draco’s spine, and then started slowly stroking his thumb up and down. He felt lightheaded. Surely, Draco knew now. He must know, and he wasn’t moving away, so Harry moved a hair closer, brushing their hips together.

He was still standing like that a few minutes later, pretending to listen to Draco and Susan discuss the theoretical underpinnings of shield charms, when an inter-departmental memo descended, knocking Harry in the head. He unfolded it and groaned, bumping his forehead against Draco’s shoulder.

“I’ve got to go; I’m on call tonight and we’ve just been summoned back to the offices to help with booking paperwork—there’s been a major bust in a smuggling case.”

Draco looked alarmed. “On call? But… you’re all drunk?”

“That’s what sobering charms are for,” Harry snickered, “And anyways, it’s just paperwork… much more bearable after a few drinks,” he grinned.

Draco pursed his lips and smiled, “Alright then, good luck I suppose, and good night.”

“Oh,” Harry flattened his palm against Draco’s back and flexed his fingers. “I… wish I could stay. I’ll see you—”

“At my birthday party next weekend,” Susan cut in, throwing him a knowing look. Harry made a mental note to buy Susan an extremely nice vintage for her birthday.

Draco looked so pleased, thanking Susan for the invitation and expressing his excitement, Harry could hardly stand it. He managed to extricate himself without doing anything colossally stupid, like launching himself at Draco and licking all the glitter off his chest (he just squeezed his arm like a normal person instead). Then he and Ron made their way out of the party, nicking some hors d’oeuvres for the road. He spent the next few hours filling out paperwork on the smuggling case, and trying not to think about Draco’s jumpsuit, and his hair, and his makeup, and the way his lips had parted when he leaned into Harry’s touch.

\---

The morning after the Halloween party, Draco met Pansy for brunch at their favorite muggle patisserie, and, over piping coffee and freshly baked croissants, he fed her all the hot Ministry gossip he had heard the night before. He’d had a surprisingly good time, actually, and people were friendlier than he expected. That was probably due to Harry. Harry had been practically glued to him all night, beaming at everyone in financials as though he actually cared, and casually pulling Draco into conversations with the most important people in the Ministry, including the head of his own department, who’d always looked at Draco like someone would look at something scummy stuck to the bottom of their shoe. And then there was the way Harry had touched him, especially towards the end. Intentionally and intimately, like he had any business stroking his fingers over Draco’s back like that. Like he wanted something more. But Draco had learned not to indulge that particular fantasy. He resolved not to think about it. He brought his coffee to his lips, gazing into the middle distance and remembering how Harry’s fingers had tightened on his back before he’d said goodbye. When he put the cup down, Pansy was looking at him through narrow eyes.

“You haven’t mentioned Potter yet.”

“Ah…” Draco felt himself blushing. Sometimes he really hated his fair skin.

Pansy raised her eyebrows expectantly, and Draco busied himself tearing off a bite of croissant and spreading jam on it. He popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly, swallowed. He looked up.

“Pans, I don’t know what to do. He—” Draco dropped his voice to a whisper, “he kept _touching_ me, and looking at me all soulfully… and… I know I wasn’t imagining it!”

Pansy frowned.

“I mean, I just don’t know what to think!” Draco continued, “he fucks me, then acts like he wishes it never happens, then asks to be friends, then asks me to call him Harry and when I do he about has a heart attack, then he shows up to this party ogling me all night—it was _not_ subtle Pans—and I just, honestly, he got called into the office around 10 but if he hadn’t I think he would have made a move on me, I really do, and I can’t figure it out.”

Pansy looked at him sadly. “Draco, don’t go down this road again. Please.”

Draco’s throat spasmed and his brows drew down.

He nodded. “You’re right.”

She squeezed his hand. “Potter’s an idiot, we’ve always known it,” she sniffed, “If he had half a grain of sense he would be groveling at your feet right now, offering to suck you off every day for the rest of your lives to make up for how he treated you.”

Draco laughed wetly, and Pansy smiled softly at him. “I jest, but in all seriousness Draco, I don’t want to see him hurt you again. Best leave it alone.”

Draco couldn’t deny it. He sipped his coffee.

\---

Harry had been practically crawling out of his skin all week leading up to Susan’s party. He had seen Draco once, in the atrium at the end of the day, and they had chatted for a few minutes before heading home. He’d managed to comport himself like a sane person, stringing together full sentences and only stammering a little, despite the buzzing in his ears and tightness in his throat.

Susan’s birthday was at an old divey pub in wizarding London, the kind of place with grimy windows and a repurposed muggle jukebox in the corner. The bartender was an old, gruff woman with spiky hair; the drinks were strong. Harry was distracted, gaze flickering towards the doorway incessantly, compulsively, like scratching an itch. When he finally saw Draco’s blonde head bob through the door he felt a wave of relief immediately followed by a wave of nerves so strong it bordered on nausea. His head spun. When Draco crossed the room to him, Harry pulled him into a hug, recklessly pressing the side of his face into Draco’s neck.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get here,” he whispered, and felt Draco’s breath hitch.

An hour later found them squeezed into a small booth with Ron and Hermione. Draco’s thigh was pressed up against his, and Harry’s arm was slung round the back of the bench, his fingertips grazing Draco’s shoulder whenever one of them moved. He felt warm and content, remembering how Draco had leaned in and asked Harry back to his flat last year, and thinking about what he could say to Draco at the end of the night. Ron was asking Draco enthusiastically about gay wizarding clubs, kicking Harry’s shin repeatedly under the table and saying “eh?” in an increasingly suggestive manner.

“Harry, mate, sounds like you could have a lot of fun at these places?”

Harry snorted. “In Polyjuice, maybe.”

Ron grimaced, and Draco cut in, “Speaking from my experience as a rather _in_ famous character, I can only imagine how… uncomfortable it could be for Harry.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded defensively, “Draco understands, listen to him.”

Ron guffawed, “Bet you’re right mate. I mean, what Harry, other than Oliver you’ve only had that mystery wizard, right?” He frowned, “Is that what happened? Was he all weird about you being Harry Potter?”

Draco went very still.

“Ron—” Harry protested desperately, “let’s not talk about this—"

“Mystery wizard?” Draco asked lightly.

Ron leaned forward conspiratorially, “Harry shagged someone a while back and didn’t tell us for ages and then he got all clammed up about it,” he rolled his eyes, “I mean, it’s not like we’ve been best mates for twelve years or anything, must have really been a disaster—”

“It’s not—” Harry tried pathetically, “It wasn’t a _disaster_ , Ron, it’s just, private—”

Beside him, Draco tilted the rest of his drink back and slid out from the edge of the booth.

“I’m headed to the bar if anyone needs anything?” His voice was smooth and stiff.

Ron and Hermione waved him off. Harry remained stricken for a few seconds, looking at the table, trying to stem the tide of panic rising in his throat. “I need a drink too,” he muttered numbly, and pushed himself up, legs wooden as he stumbled off.

Draco was sitting alone at the edge of the bar. He had an expensive scotch in his hands; Harry watched as he brought it slowly up to his mouth and sipped, deliberate and controlled. His back was very straight. Harry sidled up next to him.

“I didn’t think it was a disaster,” he said quietly.

Draco didn’t turn to face him. “I don’t want to hear it,” he bit out.

“I mean it,” Harry said, “I never said that; those were Ron’s words, he’s drunk you know—” He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t say that; I just said that it was a bit… messy. Which it was!” he finished plaintively.

Draco swiveled around to look him straight in the eye. “Was it?” he asked coolly.

“Ah…” Harry trailed off, realizing that the messy bit had been him leaving the way he did.

“Well if that’s all then,” Draco said, draining his drink.

“No!” Harry reached out a hand toward Draco’s knee, and he flinched away. “No, Draco please—I’m sorry ok?” He ran a hand through his hair again, “You’ve got to know it wasn’t a disaster, I mean, honestly it was the best fuck of my life, I can't—” he choked out, “I can’t stop thinking about it, I can’t stop thinking about you—"

Draco stood abruptly, knocking the barstool back behind him and pinning Harry with a fierce glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he hissed. “You think I’m going to skip happily on home because you really did enjoy fucking me?” Harry frowned, shaking his head— he didn’t mean— “You think it’s a great relief for me to hear that you find me so despicable, you’d keep ‘the best fuck of your life’ a secret - from even your _best friends_ \- rather than admit it was me?” Harry’s ears were ringing. He opened his mouth to protest but found he didn’t have anything to say. Draco held up a hand; his expression had gone cold. “You know Potter,” he said slowly, “I’ve had many uncharitable thoughts about you over the years, but I never did think you were a coward.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

Harry was frozen in place. Was he a coward? He thought again about the way Draco had wrapped around him, nosing along the back of his neck and murmuring _“good morning,”_ warm and sweet. He thought about saying _“I should go_.” He signaled the bartender for a shot, although he felt rather like he was going to be sick. When it came, he downed it and ordered another.

Harry stumbled back to the table in a haze. “Alright mate?” Ron looked up at him as he approached, “you look like you’ve just seen your boggart.”

He slid into his seat and took a long swallow, then slowly set his glass down. “It was Draco,” he said tonelessly. Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth.

“What?” Ron asked, “Malfoy? what was Malfoy?”

“My first—” Harry felt himself flushing and clenched his fists, digging his nails in. “the time I wouldn’t tell you about.” He dragged his gaze up from the table in time to see horrified comprehension dawning across Ron’s face.

“Blimey… Malfoy? But—Malfoy!” he gestured wildly “And I just—oh bollocks, Harry I just said _that_ —” Hermione moaned quietly into her hands. “Merlin, mate I’m sorry I had no idea—"

“Of course you didn’t,” Harry said brusquely, “because I didn’t tell you. I was afraid to tell you. He called me a coward, just now at the bar. I’ve fucked up everything haven’t I?” He looked desperately at Hermione. She reached across the table gently and took his hands in hers.

“Harry,” she asked softly, “what happened?”

“It was last Christmas,” he began miserably. “I was just figuring things out and I ran into him at the Leaky. He was really understanding, and one thing led to another, you know—” he flushed and cleared his throat. “Anyways, we ended up going back to his and honestly? It was fantastic.” He took a deep breath. “But the next morning I woke up and I just freaked out. I mean it was _Malfoy_ , and I’d only _just_ broken up with Ginny, I was barely out to myself, much less publicly, I knew the papers would be all over me, it was just overwhelming… so—” he grimaced, “I asked him not to let it get in the papers, and I left and that was it.” Hermione’s mouth was hanging open, aghast, and Ron was rather white. “I realized I’d screwed up and I tried to be his friend, you know, and when you asked me about it, I don’t know, I panicked, I didn’t want to admit what an arse I’d been, and I knew you’d ask me how I felt and it just seemed easier to not talk about it, at least until I’d gotten myself sorted.”

Hermione gazed steadily at him for a moment. “Because you actually fancy him,” she said sadly.

“Yeah,” Harry let out a short, hollow laugh. “I only just figured it out.” He took another long swallow. “I wanted to ask him for a pint around the holidays.” He was horrified to hear his voice cracking slightly. There was a moment of silence in which Harry replayed the moment Draco’s eyes had flashed with hurt before shuttering blank and closed. “Oh god,” he moaned, dropping his face into his hands, “I’m a fucking coward and I’ve ruined my chances and I deserve it, too.”

There was a moment of heavy silence. Ron reached across and squeezed his shoulder.

Hermione took a deep breath, “Come on Harry,” she said bracingly, “It’s bad but it’s not… completely unsalvageable?” Harry snorted humorlessly.

“At least you can try,” she said. “Let him know how you really feel, what you were thinking. Maybe he’ll understand.”

\---

Harry wrote Malfoy letter after letter, apologizing profusely, begging for forgiveness, recounting everything he’d felt that night and since. At least one letter every day for two weeks. His small brown owl, Glenlivet, had started waiting by Harry’s desk in the evening after work, with a sorry look on his face. _This again? Really?_ The first week, Harry went by Draco’s office, but the door was closed and the window shuttered. He couldn’t bring himself to knock. Obviously, Draco didn’t want to see him. Harry spotted him a few times—across the cafeteria or the atrium, down a hallway—but when Draco noticed him approaching he turned swiftly and walked away. Finally, Harry spied him in line for the floos at the end of the day. They always used to chat for a few minutes when they ran into each other there, stepping out of line and waving their colleagues forward. Hope tingled in his fingers as he quickened his stride. “Draco!” he called out, smiling hesitantly, reaching out to touch his arm—and Draco turned towards him, paused, pulled his arm away, nodded curtly, “Potter,” and disappeared into the flames.

At home, Harry went straight for the liquor cabinet, skipping dinner. He poured himself a tumbler of scotch, then another, then another. His head swam, and there was a dull ache growing behind his eyes. He sat at his desk and took out a quill and parchment.

_Dear Draco,_

_I didn’t like when you called me Potter today. I want you to call me Harry again. ~~I want~~ I think about you all the time. You were good to me that night, when you didn’t have to be. And you felt so good—the things you showed me. Sometimes I remember how it felt and I can’t breathe. It hasn’t felt that way with anyone else. I want you so badly I can’t think straight. I’ll do anything you say, to make it up to you. Just tell me, please._

_-Harry_

He handed it to an exasperated Glenlivet, poured himself another scotch—a double—swallowed it down, and crawled into bed. The next morning, he woke up that unfortunate combination of ravenous and nauseous. An owl he didn’t recognize swooped in with his morning post, dropped a scrap of parchment and swooped haughtily back out again. With a sinking feeling, Harry scrambled to unfold it. A single line of neat cursive stared at him: _Please stop writing me._

\---

Harry made it through the rest of November in a haze. Draco had stopped avoiding him and was now simply acknowledging him coolly and formally, even more distant than he’d been before they slept together. Once, they’d been the last two left in a lift and Draco had resolutely ignored every attempt Harry made to talk about what had happened, answering each overture with a bland comment about the weather, or the expense reports he was working on, or the dire need to redesign the uniform robes in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Harry wanted to stop the lift, trap them in there, make Draco talk to him; he wanted to scream, but then the bell dinged and Draco swept out, inclining his head politely and wishing Harry a lovely afternoon.

The second weekend of December found him at his wits end, curled up on Ron and Hermione’s couch with his head resting in Hermione’s lap and Ron sitting on the floor in front of him.

“I just don’t know what I can do at this point. He doesn’t want me to write to him and I have to respect that. He wants to act like nothing ever happened when I do see him, which I suppose I also have to respect, since this is all my fault anyways…” he trailed off, groaning.

“Harry,” Hermione said kindly, “When you’ve hurt someone… they don’t have to forgive you, even if you apologize.”

Harry curled in on himself with a low, pained noise. He knew, theoretically, that he simply might not be able to fix things. But he tried not to think about it. Hermione gently combed through the tangles in his hair.

“I know you don’t want to give up…” she sighed. “Do you think you’ve really addressed the root of it? I mean, you’ve written him why you freaked out, and why you didn’t tell us about it, and how you feel about him now, but... It’s more than just your feelings for him—it’s whether you’re willing to stand by him, right? Think about it from his perspective. Everyone knows he’s changed, yet people hold him at arm’s length, they don’t trust him. He’s accepted, but he’s always kind of on the fringe. And then you come in, and maybe you’re interested, maybe you don’t regret it, maybe you really fancy him, but you wanted to keep him a secret, before—How does he know it’s different now?”

A moment of silence, then Harry sat upright, sighing. “I know what I need to do.”

\---

Back at his flat, Harry sat at his desk once more. Glenlivet eyed him warily. He pulled out a quill and parchment and wrote:

_Dear Pansy,_

_I have a business proposition. I know you are Draco’s closest friend, so you probably already know how massively I’ve fucked things up with him. I want to make it right, and I want you to help. If you’re interested meet me at the Leaky 12 pm Thursday._

_-Harry Potter_


	5. This year... I'll give it to someone special

The morning of Christmas Eve, Draco awoke to an insistent scratching on his window. He’d declined to go to France again this year, preferring to wallow in equal parts self-pity and self-loathing. He’d resolved instead to spend the holiday in bed, getting drunk, just as he had the previous year, only this time he got a couple of days head start. There was something poetically just about it. The seasons might pass but he was still Draco Malfoy, and he always would be, and it wouldn’t do to forget it. No one else would, after all.

The scratching on the window grew harder to ignore. Grumbling, he dragged himself out of bed and across the room. Harry’s little brown owl was at the window again. He contemplated shooing it away, but it looked at him so apologetically he couldn’t help letting it in for a treat. The owl winged over to him and dropped a parcel, hooted at him in solidarity, and flapped back out. Draco begrudgingly unwrapped the parcel, seeing that it was the latest _Witch Weekly_ , rolled up. And that was odd, since the December edition wasn’t supposed to come out until Christmas Day. As he unrolled it, a free scrap of parchment drifted down to the floor. He picked it up. Scrawled on it, in Harry’s truly horrendous handwriting, was a note:

_Draco,_

_This is an advance copy of tomorrow’s edition. If you’re uncomfortable with any of it, or don’t want it to run, just let Pansy know. She’ll be waiting to hear from you this morning. I didn’t know how better to show you that I’m not ashamed of what happened. Actually, that’s not entirely true—I’m only ashamed of how I treated you. If you’re willing to talk, I’ll be home all day. I’ve opened the floo to you—Number 12 Grimmauld Place._

_-Harry_

Draco groped dimly for the edge of the bed behind him, dropping unsteadily to a seat as he smoothed out the cover. A photo of Harry’s face was plastered across it, Draco watched on a loop as photo-Harry worried his lower lip self-consciously, and then, likely at the direction of the cameraperson, smoothed his brow and attempted a nervous smile. Emblazoned across the top was the headline _THE SAVIOR SPEAKS: Harry Potter on love, loss, and finding himself._ Below it, a subtitle: _Plus, a Witch Weekly Exclusive Scoop: You’ll never guess who the Chosen One is pining after this Christmas! Details inside, p. 17._

His fingers shook as he turned to page 17, where he was greeted by another large photo of Harry, wearing a hand-knitted jumper in Gryffindor red, with a wobbly golden snitch stitched on the front. This photo looked candid—Harry’s eyes flicked down at his lap and then up as he ducked his head, blushing and smiling shyly. Draco simply stared at it for a few moments before remembering with a frantic start that there was a whole article attached, which he immediately began scanning feverishly. It was a standard self-discovery fluff piece; Pansy knew her job and she did it well. He found the passage about midway through:

_And is there any lucky lad the Savior of the Wizarding World has his eye on now? Harry told us the answer is emphatically yes. But, dear readers, put your crystal balls away. Harry made no secret of who’s caught his eye this year: none other than Draco Malfoy. That’s right, Harry’s old schoolyard rival, who was recruited into the Death Eaters as a minor at the behest of his father, Lucius Malfoy, but provided critical aid to the Golden Trio during the War, refusing to identify Harry when he was held captive at Malfoy Manor. No one can deny there is certainly a juicy history between them! But in case any readers doubt that opposites attract, Harry was happy to tell us what he sees now in someone with whom he shared such a fraught past:_

_“Draco’s brilliant, and honestly I’m bothered that I have to say it. That’s why I’m doing this interview, anyways, normally I like to keep very private… But people don’t really give Draco any credit. Like at work, he could be running his unit but nobody in the Ministry wants to promote him even though he’s already doing the work of two people and he’s saved the Transportation budget 20% from last year. And the thing is, I didn’t give him credit at first either. Last Christmas, I was going through a bit of a rough patch, working through coming out—to myself and publicly, and I ran into Draco and he was so… thoughtful, really sincere, you know? He gave me loads of good advice. But I—I acted like a right arse, afterwards, like I didn’t even want to know him. I could have had a chance with him then but I bollocksed it up completely, and I didn’t even realize what I was missing. Then I started to get my head on and I kind of accosted him and asked him to be my friend, which was a weird thing to do but he was really polite about it. Even though I hadn’t been so polite to him. He’s nice like that. And he always makes me laugh. I make excuses to go down to his office all the time, which he probably sees through because he’s wicked smart—he’s frighteningly good at the pub quiz, honestly, Hermione called him an asset and that’s saying something. I realized how I felt a couple of months ago, and I was going to ask him out properly, but I… I was stupid. I’d been like everyone else, judging him on who he used to be, and I was afraid to tell my friends I fancied him, afraid of what people would think, afraid of what I wanted, I guess. And he found out that I— didn’t want to admit it. I don’t blame him, that he doesn’t want to be with me. I haven’t exactly proved that I deserve him. So I guess I’m telling you all this because I don’t want to be afraid. It’s shite. Maybe I [redacted] it up irreparably with Draco. But at least I don’t want to be a coward about it.”_

_If at this point you need to excuse yourself to fetch a handkerchief, we at Witch Weekly would not blame you in the slightest. But how tugged should our heartstrings be? Is it just a crush? After all, our Savior has only had eyes on the wizards of Britain for one year. Would he really want something serious with Draco Malfoy? When put to the question, the truth shone out from those famous emerald eyes as he spoke: “I’d be so serious about him, if he’d let me.”_

_Of course, dear readers, we couldn’t let him get away without asking how much a part Draco’s good looks have played in all this—that blonde hair is notorious, after all. Harry’s response was charming indeed: “Oh yeah, I mean he’s like, alarmingly fit, I didn’t even think I had to mention that. You should have seen him at the Ministry Halloween party, I thought I was going to—Oh god, I’m really embarrassing myself, aren’t I?” Truly, dear readers, he is smitten._

Draco finished the article, then put it down, then re-read the whole thing slowly, then re-read the bits about himself twice more, then strode down the hall and flooed Pansy. She appeared immediately, wringing her hands.

“So you’ve seen it?”

“Yes—can I come through?”

She beckoned him frenetically, backing out of his way. “Come on, come on,” the note of anxiety rang clearly in her voice. He stepped into her sitting room.

“And?” She looked at him, wide-eyed, beseeching. “What do you think? Is it alright? Do I need to change anything?”

“Pans.” He looked at her and looked away, cleared his throat. “You’ve always… You’ve cautioned me, with Potter, not to let myself—” He took a deep breath. “Is it true? What he said. I can’t—” He choked out, “Pans, I can’t—”

Instantly, her arms were around him. Draco buried his face in her hair, trying to steady his breathing.

“Draco, baby, shh, it’s alright,” she murmured, and then pulled back, looking him dead in the eye. “It’s true.” Draco made a half-formed questioning noise, and she shook her head. “I’m serious Draco. You know I would _never_ publish that if I thought it would hurt you. And that utter tripe about _the truth shining through his emerald eyes_?” She rolled her own. “You know Potter can’t hide an emotion to save his own life. The man’s an open book, and he meant what he said. I could tell.” She paused and laughed shortly. “And he’s willing to go on record in front of _Witch Weekly’s_ entire subscribing audience. That’s got to count for something.”

Draco laughed too, slightly hysterically. “Ok Pans, what do I do now?”

She eyed him narrowly for a moment, wrinkling her nose, “Well, you could start by taking a shower.”

\---

Back at his flat, Draco showered, brushed his teeth, dressed carefully (fitted grey trousers and a slate blue cashmere jumper that brought out his eyes), fixed his hair, brushed his teeth again, contemplated a quick whiskey—though it was only 11 am—but ultimately decided against it when he realized he would have to brush his teeth a third time. He walked into the sitting room. He looked at the fireplace. He took a deep breath, and, before he could think better of it, stepped into the flames. He emerged into a dim parlour. Before he could take in any of it, Harry was striding towards him—it appeared Draco had caught him pacing back and forth across the room. His hair was a wild mess, of course, and Draco noticed his socked feet, of all things—another strange new intimacy, this year, seeing Harry Potter in his home, in his socks, on Christmas Eve.

Draco hadn’t even stepped away from the mantel before Harry was crowding his space, backing him up against the wall beside the fireplace. He stopped short of touching, inches apart. He could see Harry’s chest heaving, hear him breathing—a desperate inhale and a short exhale. Harry was practically vibrating with tension. It was radiating off him, his jaw clenching and unclenching, hands twitching and fisting at his sides. Draco felt suddenly lightheaded.

“You came,” Harry said. His voice was pained, low and rough. Draco had already forgotten everything he was going to say.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, “for everything.” He was so close, and Draco could see him straining to keep his distance, his body swaying forward and jerking back infinitesimally.

Draco couldn’t respond. He couldn’t move. Harry said, “I mean it. I meant everything I said. I hate— I hate that shit, telling everyone my business, but I thought it might— I don’t care if they know. I want everyone to know about you,” he moved even closer, their chests barely touching, “I want you,” he whispered, and Draco closed his eyes. “Can I?”

Draco made a soft noise, tilting his chin forward, and their lips met. The kiss was tentative at first, and then desperate. Harry pressed Draco bodily against the wall, fisting his fingers in Draco’s hair. The blood left Draco’s brain shockingly quickly, leaving him dizzy and breathless, and before he knew it, Harry’s hands were at the buttons of Draco’s trousers and he was gasping, “Please, Draco—can I—”

Draco nodded feverishly. Harry dropped to his knees, nuzzling into Draco’s groin, and then he was looking up, eyes wide, saying, “Yes?” And Draco swallowed thickly, trying to get the word out, “ _yes._ ”

Harry was as attentive as Draco remembered, asking what he liked, gauging his reactions, chasing his pleasure, and Draco realized he was close in an embarrassingly short time.

“Harry, wait, stop—” he gasped, tugging him off.

Harry looked up at him, lips parted, waiting.

“I’m going— I’m going to—”

“That’s alright,” Harry smiled beatifically up at him. “I want you to.” He dipped his head back down, brushed his lips against the head of Draco’s cock, still gazing up at him over the rims of his glasses. Draco shook his head frantically, “But I want— I want you to—”

“Oh,” Harry interrupted smoothly, “I won’t be done with you then, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m going to make you come now, right here, in my mouth, and then I’m going to take you to bed, and rim you until you’re hard again, and then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress, and you’re going to come _again_ , while I’m inside you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Draco’s whole body tensed and then sagged against the wall, and he whimpered helplessly, and Harry just smiled up at him, and bent down, taking him into his mouth again.

It didn’t take long. Draco’s knees gave out as he finished, and Harry held him up, pinning his hips to the wall and licking him clean. And then he tucked Draco back into his trousers and stood up, brushing a thumb across Draco’s cheekbone.

“Merlin, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, and kissed him, slow and filthy. Draco swayed, woozy, and he could feel where Harry was hard, pressed up against his thigh. He moaned weakly and Harry pulled back, resting their foreheads together. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

Draco allowed himself to be led, still unsteady on his feet, up a flight of stairs and into Harry’s bedroom. He let Harry maneuver him onto the bed, where, still limp, he closed his eyes as Harry undressed him slowly, lifting each of his limbs in turn as he divested Draco of his clothing piece by piece. Draco finally fluttered his eyes open when he felt Harry move off the bed, and he watched as Harry stripped himself equally slowly, staring at Draco the whole time, intent, hungry.

Finally, Harry moved over him, Draco letting out an appreciative sigh at the feel of Harry’s skin on his.

“Ready for more?” Harry murmured, and Draco nodded sleepily and allowed Harry to turn him over onto his stomach. He placed a kiss to the nape of Draco’s neck, then began working his way down his spine, trailing his lips over Draco’s skin, breath ghosting over his ribs. He drew his thumbs down and spread Draco open, pressing his mouth to Draco’s hole, flicking his tongue out. Draco’s fingers twitched feebly. Harry didn’t stop when Draco was hard again. He kept going until Draco was leaking, feverishly rutting into the sheets and pressing back into Harry’s face, and then he slipped a finger in, brushing against Draco’s prostate, and sucked, and Draco threw his head back, keening, asking for more.

Harry gave it to him slowly—a second finger, and then a third, stretching him open even though he was already loose and relaxed, dripping with Harry’s saliva.

“Gorgeous,” Harry murmured again, sinking his fingers in, “you have no idea how much I’ve thought about this… getting you ready for my cock, fucking you,” Draco’s hips jerked back, and he moaned, “I’m ready, Harry, come on.”

Harry’s hand tightened around the top of Draco’s thigh. “I want—” he sucked in a breath, “I like to hear you ask for it,” he said hoarsely.

Draco shuddered, clenching around Harry’s fingers, “ _Fuck_ , Harry, fuck me _please_.”

Harry groaned, withdrawing his fingers and conjuring lube into his hand, lining up, pushing in. Draco’s breath left him in a rush, Harry felt so good inside of him, and he told him so and Harry whined and his hips stuttered. He didn’t hold back this time, didn’t tease Draco anymore, just fucked him without restraint or inhibition. When he reached around for Draco’s cock, gasping out, “Are you close, Draco, come on, I want you to come, please,” Draco seized up, moaning, “ _yes— yes,_ ” and as he started coming, Harry followed him over the edge, and then they collapsed on the mattress together into a sweaty, sticky mess.

After, they dozed off and roused, showering together and dressing in pajamas—Harry had quite a collection of flannels that Draco was only too happy to snuggle into, and as he shrugged into a particularly cozy number, he popped his head out the top to see Harry looking at him with a dazed, silly smile, eyes shining in his face. Harry led Draco down to the kitchen, where he proceeded to make a full fry-up which they both dug into ravenously. They spent the afternoon under blankets on the couch, talking quietly and watching the snow fall outside, Harry occasionally reaching out to touch Draco’s face disbelievingly, Draco sometimes breaking out into giddy laughter for no reason at all.

At one point, Draco remembered with a start that it was Christmas Eve,

“Don’t you have anywhere to be tonight?”

Harry smiled sheepishly, “I told Molly I’d be waiting on you all day so I was afraid to come over in case I missed you.”

Draco smiled helplessly, then frowned, “Well, you didn’t miss me, so if you want to go…”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, “You want to go to the Weasley Christmas? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love it, I just thought it might be a lot for you—”

Draco shook his head, laughing, “No, Harry, I meant _you_ can go—”

“And what, leave you here?”

“I do have my own home, you know…”

Harry shook his head firmly, “Oh no, I’ve got you in my house and I’m not letting you go until January, at least.”

Draco shot him an amused look, “A whole week? What will I wear?”

“I have a lot of pajamas. And I like the way you look in them.”

They ate Christmas Eve dinner in the kitchen. Harry cooked again; Draco mostly drank wine and watched him. Over a truly delectable seafood pasta, Harry nervously asked Draco whether he might like to go to his aunt Andromeda’s for breakfast the next morning. It was easy to beg off the Weasleys, but Teddy, being a small child, hadn’t taken the news of Harry’s possible absence with as much grace. Draco felt a tight clench in his chest. He had met Andromeda a few times after the war, but their relationship, if it could even be called that, was a tenuous one. He’d wanted more, wanted to know this part of his family that wasn’t poison, but he didn’t want to push her—she had lost so much. He responded haltingly, stammering, and Harry reassured him that he had told Andromeda all about his machinations, and she had signed up for a free one-month trial of _Witch Weekly_ just so she could get the December issue, which she planned to preserve as material with which to make fun of him for the rest of her natural life. Apparently, she’d said that if Harry was willing to make _that_ big an idiot of himself for Draco, it would certainly be worth her time to get to know him better. So they sent Glenlivet off with a note after dinner, retiring in front of the fireplace with another bottle of wine.

It was already the best Christmas Draco had had in years, and when said it out loud, Harry looked at him all soft and sleepy-eyed, and said, “let’s go to bed.”

Upstairs, they shrugged out of their pajamas, and Harry drew Draco down on top of him, kissing him sweetly and arching up into him. “Draco,” he breathed, “I want— if you want to— I want you to fuck me.”

Draco’s breath caught and he looked down at Harry, trailed his fingers across his chest, “Yes, I want to,” he replied, kissing him again and rocking their hips together. When Harry pressed up against him with an urgent whine, he drew back, questioning, “How do you want it?”

“Like this,” Harry breathed, spreading his thighs and drawing his knees up, exposing himself to Draco. Looking down at him, Draco swallowed thickly and nodded once, hard. Harry summoned a bottle of lube from a drawer in his nightstand and pressed it into Draco’s hand. Coating his fingers, he reached down, watching Harry’s eyes widen and his breath quicken. He worked Harry open slowly, kissing him, until Harry was panting and squirming beneath him, and he huffed out, “God, Draco, are you going to make me beg—” and Draco grinned wickedly down at him, “I want to hear you ask for it.”

Harry laughed, throwing his head back, and then fixed his gaze on Draco’s, his eyes gone serious and earnest. “Draco,” he said low, “I want you to fuck me. I want you inside me. I—please.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, slicking himself. As he pushed in, Harry’s eyes fluttered and he made a soft _oh_ sound, arching up slightly. Draco took him apart like that, slow and sweet. When Harry pulsed out over his fingers with a weak cry, Draco buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, thrusting deep and stuttering out his own release. As he rolled off, cleaning them both with a wave of his hand, Harry reached for him, fitting them together the way they had woken up a year ago—Draco wrapped around Harry, arm around his chest, nose in his hair. Harry hummed contentedly, snuggling back against him. Draco nuzzled Harry’s neck, holding him as their breathing slowed.

\---

Draco awoke slowly, to a snuffling sensation along his neck. He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously. A wild nest of black hair was tickling his chin and attached to it was a mouth trailing down his neck—Harry’s mouth. Harry paused at Draco’s collarbone and nipped gently, and Draco inhaled sharply. The nest of hair tilted up and back, and bright green eyes looked down on him, twinkling mischievously.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding not in the least bit sorry, “did I wake you?”

Draco snorted. Harry pressed a kiss to his sternum, lifting his head to grin cheekily at Draco as he skated a hand down Draco’s chest and then, lower— “it’s just, I’m always impatient to see what my presents are, Christmas morning.”

“Harry,” Draco groaned, “it’s too early in the morning for terrible jokes.”

“But it’s Christmas,” Harry pouted, “and you’re in my house, so you’ve got to suffer all my awful Christmas-themed innuendo.”

Draco did his best to look very put-upon, “I suppose I’ve endured worse than your plebian sense of humor… If you truly cannot control yourself, I imagine I’ll manage.” He couldn’t keep the fond note out of his voice. He didn’t even try.

Harry beamed down at him and leant forward, brushing their noses together.

“Happy Christmas, Draco.”

Happy Christmas, Harry.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> I had loads of fun writing this, and it was my first fic ever, so please let me know what you think!


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